


Blank

by malchanceux



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: "helps" is a strong word perhaps, Anal Fingering, Biting, Come Marking, Creepy Hannibal, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Hannibal helps ground Will with the power of le sexy times, I think that's it??, Kinda, M/M, Marking, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive Behavior, Panic Attacks, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Hannibal, Prompt Fill, Rape/Non-con Elements, Shower Sex, Smut, Will Figures It Out, uhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 10:16:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malchanceux/pseuds/malchanceux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Will figures it out, he doesn't flee, he doesn't call Jack Crawford, and he doesn't pull his gun. There is no dramatic confrontation. In fact, he barely remembers to breathe.</p><p>Hannibal is pleasantly surprised, and takes a shocked, scared, and breaking Will Graham into his care.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> Ehhhhh, this is my first smutty fic. Well, my first legit one. I beg for criticisms specifically where the porn is please, even if you're just correcting spelling. =3=
> 
> Don't have a Beta unfortunately, so there will be some obvious, but still missed mistakes.

            It takes sixteen sessions.

 _Sixteen_.

            Sixteen hours talking to Doctor Hannibal Lecter, with Will spilling his deepest secrets, deepest _fears_ to the man, to his friend. To the Copycat Killer. To the _Chesapeake_ _Ripper_. And that doesn’t even take into account all the time they’d spent together _outside_ Hannibal’s office: in the FBI’s headquarters, at crime scenes, in Hannibal’s house, at _Will’s_ house. Christ, the amount of times the psychiatrist had brought him breakfast, invited him to dinner, or— _oh fuck._ Oh fuck, fuck, _fuck_ it was people. All of it. Protein scramble—the first time. It was—was Cassie Boyle. He’d eaten _Cassie Boyle_ and who knew who else. _‘Who knew’_ except for the man sitting across from him, posed like any other therapy session, face as unreadable as ever.

            Will’s eyes stayed glued to the bronze Stag statue that had given everything away; given the empath the jump he needed to solve the—solve _everything._ It had guided him through his subconscious in the form of a nightmarish creature, took hunches and formed them into deductions in his unconscious while his waking mind was none the wiser, and brought the truth to light in the form of restless nights, lost time, and bouts of sleepwalking.

            “Will?” He thinks back to every meal Hannibal has made for him, every piece of meat that’s passed his lips _(“Lamb,” Hannibal had said once, when the Special Investigator had inquired about their shared meal, “from a trusted butcher.”)._ He thinks of how he complimented Hannibal on his cooking, his _skill._ And not always in words, no, he’d practically _moaned_ into the plates, finished each _masterpiece_ with gusto.

            He feels dirty, used—betrayed.

            “Will?” Most of all he feels stupid—so utterly, hopelessly dull. For him to think—to think someone like _Hannibal Lecter_ would ever find him interesting past a plaything, to think they were friends, to even _entertain_ the idea of ever being something more. And the sickest, most pathetic part was his disappointment, the absolute heartbreak. Because Will had—had _hoped_ that he’d finally found someone that he could be himself around and not worry about scaring them away, or be paranoid about being manipulated because of his empathy. He’d thought, he’d thought—

            “ _Will_ ,” and there’s suddenly a hand on his shoulder, firm yet gentle. Will flicks his eyes up, gaze quickly moving over an expensive three-piece suit that shouldn’t be so close, and meets the doctor’s maroon flecked eyes with his own grey-blue in a fleeting, skittish glance. The doctor looks concerned. It’s a faint emotion, the only kind he’s ever gotten off Hannibal—what he used to see as a positive trait, even, “Will, I need you to take deep breaths for me. If you don’t calm down you are going to faint.”

            Will realizes that he can’t—can’t breathe. He’s panting, choking, and can’t get enough air in his lungs. He must look insane to Hannibal, having a panic attack so out of the blue. If only he could see inside his mind, see what brought on the quaking in his limbs and tears to his eyes; see what made his throat constrict and his lungs flounder uselessly within his chest. If Hannibal knew, would he kill him? Slaughter him like a pig? Would Hannibal slice through his skin, break through his ribs, and choke the life out his heart with his bare hands?

            There is a numbness creeping into his limbs now, a tingling sensation skittering over his skin. It feels as though, at any moment, he’ll fly apart and cease to exist. Will wraps his arms protectively around himself, hunching over and trying to pull away from the hand that’s scalding him through his flannel shirt. Tears run down his cheeks, but he does not sob. Instead he wheezes, _tries_ to take in oxygen, but it’s a losing battle. Will hears Hannibal call his name, hears full sentences fall from the doctor’s refined mouth but cannot understand the words produced. What is the point? _What is the point?_

            “Will? _Will?_ ” Hannibal’s hands return to his shoulders, but this time they do more than hold firm. They pull the empath from his seat, onto the floor where the doctor is now sitting. Will is maneuvered and tugged and prodded until he is resting his head at Hannibal’s chest, the doctor’s legs bracketing his shaking, huddled form like a barrier from the horrors of reality. Will’s heart jumps in his chest when he realizes the protective gesture is only keeping him that much _closer_ to one of the most terrible horrors he’s ever come across.

            One of Hannibal’s arms curl around his shoulder and chest, while another presses Will’s head against the doctor’s body, fingers tangled in his hair and palm pressed against his ear, like he’s trying to help shut the world out.

            “Listen to my heartbeat dear Will, concentrate on my breathing,” Hannibal murmurs, his cheek resting atop Will’s head, “You are safe here.”

            Will almost laughs in response, because _here—_ with Hannibal—is where the danger is. The Special Agent does giggle then—a flat, raspy thing choked by his gasping—when it dawns on him that he’s cuddled in the arms of a cannibalistic serial killer, and that it’s actually helping him calm down.

            Will turns his head, pressing his cheek into fine silk and smooth wool. He does as Hannibal instructed: listens for his heart, and tries to match the older man’s breathing. With each inhale, a whiff of the doctor’s expensive cologne and a damp, musky scent that is purely Hannibal over takes his sense of smell; it congeals at the back of his throat into an almost spicy taste. The doctor’s heartbeat is steady, and the slower Will’s breathing becomes, the louder the organ seems to get.

            Will’s not sure how long they stay like that. Time becomes void to the empath as he concentrates on sent and sound alone. Hannibal shushes quietly, soothing Will with gentle nonsense words in both English and a language originating from somewhere farther East. As Will comes down from the chaos of such a strong panic attack, he feels exhausted—both physically and mentally. He stops thinking about the Chesapeake Ripper and cannibalism. He doesn’t have the stamina, or the motivation. Instead, he lets his mind all but skitter to a halt; he escapes into himself, locks the little screaming voice in his head telling him to _get away_ and to _call Jack_ away in a tight, compact box of oblivion. Will doesn’t want to hear it.

            “Will?” Hannibal’s voice is a deep rumble in his chest. Will doesn’t respond, just enjoys the vibrations of speech and lets the smooth accent wash over him. The doctor tilts Will’s head back and looks into his eyes. Will’s gaze slides slowly from the older man’s chin to forehead, nose to temple, and back again: aimless. He notes Hannibal’s calculating expression, but doesn’t really process it. Suddenly everything seemed so… _distant._

            “It is 5:40 P.M., you are in Baltimore, Maryland, and your name is Will Graham.”

            _That’s right,_ Will thinks, or so he assumes it is. He knows who he is— _I’m not Garrett Jacob Hobbs, Dr. Lecter—_ but he’s not so sure about time and place. His limbs are too far away to feel properly, his head a listless fog. It does not matter where he is, he decides, or when, because Hannibal will take care of him as he always has. Even though Hannibal’s a murderer. The doctor had been killing people for so long, and yet hadn’t he cared for Will until now? He’s his paddle. _He’s his paddle._

“What did you see, Will?” Hannibal asks, still holding his face upturned for proper scrutiny.

            _Everything,_ Will wants to say _._ Instead he remains silent. His mouth will not open properly, will not spill syllables in the pattern he wants. His body starts to quake again, the doctor’s grip regaining some of its lost strength and pulling him tightly to his chest—

Will blinks and he is no longer curled into Hannibal’s body. He startles, almost, at the sudden loss. He is standing in an opulent bathroom made up of cream marble and white, naked and alone. Hannibal walks in with towels held over his arm. His jacket, tie, and vest are gone, and when he sets the towels down on the counter he begins to unbutton his shirt. Will knows he should say something. If nothing else, ask how he got here, in what he assumes is Hannibal’s personal bathroom, from the office.

            His mouth does not move, he does not make a sound, and when Hannibal is fully unclothed and adjusting the showers temperature, Will’s eyes linger on strong arms. Capable arms. Arms refined into weapons. Will can see them curled around someone in a choke hold, can see their muscles flex as they work a pipe through a man’s stomach, he can see them wrapped around his shaking form with all the gentleness of a lover as it anchor’s him into the real world and keeps him from flying apart.

            Will blinks and he is in the shower. It is a modern glass and stainless steel walk-in stall. Stark. Sharp. Impersonal. Cold. The body behind him is anything but.

            There is a strong hand gripping his hip firmly and Will knows that even if his legs gave out he would not be permitted to fall. Blunt, clipped nails dig slightly into the skin, grounding the empath. He thinks that must be what brought him back again. He’s not sure if being coherent is what he wants.

            Will’s hair is soaked, plastered to his neck and forehead by warm water before a gentle hand slicks it back, and tilts the empath’s head just right so that the water runs down his throat and chest. The hand at his hip leaves to join the other in Will’s hair. He smells a faint melon scent, curled around a soft blossom aroma before cool shampoo is messaged into his curls, thick gel turning into frothy suds under skilled hands. He allows his eyes to shut and sighs in contentment. The warm water feels good, and so does being clean. The gentle touches and pleasing scents help keep Will pliant, the presence behind him helps keep him calm.

            His head is tipped forward and into the water once more. Will feels the soap slide down his body, keeps his eyes shut tight to keep out any sting. When the shampoo is completely washed away the process is repeated for conditioner, the smell and hands are just as pleasant as before. His head is once again tipped under the stream and Will imagines nervous sweat and dirt and worry and stress running down his legs with the suds, pooling between his feet before going down the drain. At first the image is calming, the suds an off-white with the soaps dye and from the grime, but the waking dream doesn’t stay so innocent for long. The showerhead creates a constant background static for Will to get lost in, and soon the off-white becomes pink.

            Will’s brow furrows, and in his minds-eye, he looks down at his feet and watches as pink ribbons swirl down the drain. As he continues to gaze unmoving, the flow of color becomes thicker, darker, until it’s a near congealing red, refusing to go down the drain. Steam from the shower becomes almost unbearable, a heavy mist flooding his lungs as Will’s breath quickens. With nowhere to go, the blood begins to rise. Will tries to move, to turn, to run, but the blood is too heavy, the _mist_ is too heavy, and he cannot budge an inch. The blood is still flowing and Will knows without a doubt that he will drown in it.

            He looks at his legs where his calves have been over taken by the thick fluid, and follows the stream of red running down it, to where the problem stems. His eyes gaze past his knee and hip, over his stomach to his chest. The follow originates higher still, and with shaking hands, the empath reaches for his neck, only to find it gaping and gushing blood.

            A gasp tries to escape him but only a wet sputter wrenches itself from his throat. A sharp pain erupts from his shoulder, and Will watches as a screw driver plunges through his skin as if in slow motion. A chisel in his chest is next, a box cutter in his foot, another screw driver through his calf, a metal pipe through his belly, construction rods through his thigh, right forearm, and flank before lastly a tire iron stabs at an angle where neck meets shoulder. The agony fades away quickly as Will takes in his body and its wounds a sees a very distinct design—the exact pattern of that of Olmstead’s tableau. He is Hannibal’s masterpiece: he is the Chesapeake Ripper’s design. He is a pig, one of a Sounder of three, insignificant in life and given purpose in death only to mock the FBI and appease the darkness hidden deep within a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

            _No,_ he thinks venomously, and the wounds and tools disappear. He was more than that, had to be if he was still alive. _Hannibal wouldn’t play with his food._ The doctor had had a million chances to get rid of him, but hadn’t. He was not intended to be one of the Chesapeake Ripper’s victims, and that simple fact served to quiet Will’s fear—still the dark, creeping hand of his imagination.

            Will comes back to himself with his forehead pressing into a naked shoulder, warm blood replaced by steaming water once more. He’s shaking again, and his breathing has gone back to its abnormal panting even if it’s not as bad as before. Gentle hands sooth at his flank and at the base of his neck while liquid words spill into Will’s awareness, murmuring in languages from the far east to talk him down from his visions and gruesome associations.

            Will struggles to collect himself, to even out his breathing so that he can speak.

            “You were on call that night,” Will breaths into bronze skin. The soothing words and petting halt at his voice, the hand at his neck gripping gently—thumb rubbing idly at the wet curls there, “Maybe he wasn’t your patient, but you saw Jeremy Olmstead at the hospital. And he did something—something vulgar. He deserved worse than what he came to the ER for. So you killed him. And ate him. And the Chesapeake Ripper turned him into art.”

            He’s still shaking, but his breathing has calmed down again. Now that panic and fear are subsiding once more, Will is left feeling exhausted and numb. Empty even. The dark corners of his mind shrink in on themselves, calmed by the lack of immediate threat, lulling the near perpetual whispers inside Will’s head to a quiet standstill. He’s back to feeling like he had before the shower: eerily apathetic.

            “Better?” Hannibal asks, cupping Will’s jaw in one hand so that he can look him in the eye—or try to. Will finds himself frantic to avoid the crimson speckled brown’s more than usual. He doesn’t trust his voice anymore either, imagines that if he opened his mouth to speak now he might snap out of the calm he feels and say something he’d terribly regret, and settles for a weak nod in affirmative instead. It earns him a small, soft smile from the doctor _(cannibal, murderer)_ before Hannibal buries a hand in wet curls at the base of Will’s skull, the other going back to gripping Will’s hip, “Good. When we’re done here, I will go down stairs and fix us something light to eat. We’ll see how you are feeling after and then determine how to best handle our current situation.”

            Will settles his gaze on the doctor’s shoulder as he stands like a marionette doll, still and easy to manipulate. Hannibal uses his bare hands to scrub down Will’s arms and chest. Will is silently grateful for the lack of loofah or washcloth. He feels hyperaware, like his skin is stretched thin over his muscles and bones, and the material, no matter how soft, would certainly be too much.

            The body soap is an almost oily mixture; it feels obsessively slick on his skin but good, and smells only faintly of fresh cotton. It mixes harmoniously with the thick steam and the scent of the shampoos. Will closes his eyes and breaths a soft sigh, scenting the man mere inches in front of him and letting the tang of days sweat mingle pleasantly with the almost too clean smell of the bathroom. He doesn’t disassociate this time, Hannibal’s touch firm enough to ground him, but gentle enough to keep him near boneless.

            One of Hannibal’s hands reach around to his back, rubbing soap into his skin slowly, and ever so subtly shifting lower and lower. Will doesn’t think much of it—too distracted by the pleasant sensations—until the hand is _washing him_ at the small of his back, fingers dipping into the cleft of his ass.

            Will gasps low and startles, but Hannibal’s other hand grips at his hip firmly and holds him still, while the other gently prods further. Will almost looks up at the man’s face in shock before he thinks better of it, and looks anywhere _but_.

 _“Doctor Lecter—”_ Will’s hands reach up to grip the doctor’s shoulders, but he doesn’t dare push the man away. Instead, he lets his fear pour from his shaky voice and hopes the doctor will heed his bubbling discomfort.

            “Hush Will,” Hannibal sooths, fingers now rubbing over his entrance, thumb massaging into the meat of his ass.

            It doesn’t feel _bad_ per se, just not right. His skin tingles pleasantly where it’s touched, and the fingers prodding at his hole stirs warmth deep in his belly. But Will doesn’t want the pleasure. Not from his cannibalistic serial killing psychiatrist.

            Will whimpers when one of the slick fingers press more firmly, nudging its way inside. The insistent kneading has stopped in favor of concentrating on the shallow penetration, just to the first knuckle. Will’s grip grows stronger with his fear.

            “Shhh,” Hannibal hums, the hand at his hip moving to Will’s stomach, petting lightly as if to calm a startled horse, “Hold still; you’re being such a good boy for me, Will.”

            The soft petting continues for a few moments longer, the finger inside Will stilling as the empath tried to calm himself down. He didn’t want this, despite what the thickening of the flesh between his legs might imply, but the thought of denying the Chesapeake Ripper sent chills down Will’s spine. Instead he clenches at the intrusion, as if to push it out; as if it would actually deter the man molesting him.

            “Hannibal I _can’t—”_ He’s cut off by sharp canines and gnawing front teeth at the junction of his shoulder. It’s painful, but not enough to break the skin: a warning bite. When the petting stops, Hannibal reaches down for his half-hard cock and wraps warm, smooth fingers around it—giving it a lazy tug while slipping his finger the rest of the way up Will’s ass. He works the finger in and out slowly, once, twice, three times before nudging a second finger in.

            It’s enough to burn now, and Will’s breath hitches on a whimper. The sensation is absolutely _foreign_ , and though it’s not all bad, he doesn’t like it.

            Hannibal retracts his teeth and licks at the bruising skin of Will’s neck. He curls his fingers more firmly around the younger man’s cock as he languidly jerks him off, giving Will ripples of pleasure but keeping him far from completion. At the same time he pumps his fingers, slowly still, with both hands out of pace. The combination of pleasure, pressure, and the burn is heady, and Will finds himself on slightly shaky legs—his cock filling out quickly. It’s been too long since someone else has touched him like this, in any sexual manner, for him to not to react so keenly, he reasons. He feels disgusted with himself all the same.

            Will has made it a point to stay mostly silent, but Hannibal suddenly pushes his fingers down on a sensitive bundle of nerves and Will _moans_. Can’t help it; his head falls forward with a breathy gasp when the doctor repeats the action, with more force, while the hand at his cock swipes a thumb over the leaking head.

            The hands at Hannibal’s shoulders grasp desperately still, but now for a different reason—the empath eager to find release. The quicker he comes, he thinks, the sooner it would be over. Will’s hips hitch in shaky thrusts as the assault on his prostate picks up its pace; the hand on his cock remaining gentle and maddeningly slow. He noses at the base of Hannibal’s neck, huffing in pleasure but careful to keep his lips off the delicate skin there. Kissing, in any form from him, would be too much. He’s taking the pleasure given to him obediently, but he’s firm in that he _does not want it_.

            “You’re being such a good boy, William,” Hannibal praises again, turning his head into the younger man’s dark curls—scenting him openly. Humiliation and indignation pulse through Will’s veins, but to his ire and bemusement, intoxicating heat is quick on its heels. Delight in being a _‘good boy’_ for the doctor, Will realizes. Will doesn’t have the ability to concentrate and analyze that properly, not sure if he even has the energy for it, or the desire to understand just how fucked up he is.

            A third finger breaches him, not as slick as the others had been with soap. He feels the stinging burn more now, but he’s too far gone for it to put him off. Will can feel an all too familiar heat pooling deep in his belly, coiling tight and desperate for release. He shudders at every jerk at his cock, moans at every press to his prostate. He is on the edge of orgasm and he feels both elated and disgusted with himself for it; panicked, calmed, and _frantically_ aroused all at once.

            Will tells himself he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Tells himself he still wants Hannibal to stop. He scrunches his eyes shut and closes out the voice in the back of his head screaming _liar_ and let’s his body take control.

            “Hannibal,” Will pants, begs, “ _Please_.”

            The doctor hums to himself, “You’ve been so well-behaved for me dear William, so cooperative,” he slows the pace of his fingers in Will’s ass in trade for more precise, powerful thrusts—all but turning Will’s thoughts to mud, “You’ve been such a good, _good_ boy,” Hannibal gripped Will’s cock more firmly, using his thumb to rub at the sensitive nerves at the head every other pump, matching Will’s now regular, willing thrusts verbatim, “And good boy’s get rewards.”

            The doctor leaned forward to bite at Will’s shoulder again, relentlessly pressing into the younger man’s prostate at the same time. Will shuddered and gasped, hips jerking forward into Hannibal’s fist as he came, the doctor’s careful hand milking him through it. It felt strange, coming around the fingers inside him, but not _bad,_ and not _wrong._ They stopped their harsh thrusts, and instead massaged gently at the sensitive bundle of nerves until Will was finished, whining softly at the near painful overstimulation.

            Hannibal slowly removed his fingers, rubbing softly at the abused flesh of Will’s hole before rinsing them off under the spray of the shower. Will’s legs felt like if he tried to move, they’d collapse from beneath him, so instead he opted to stay put with his forehead resting at the crook of Hannibal’s shoulder—slowly catching his breath.

            Hannibal kissed the top of Will’s head, gentle in a way his bite had not been. A hand buries itself in the younger man’s curls and holds firmly, but not enough to hurt. Will opens his eyes, confused, and sees for the first time just how _pleased_ Hannibal had been with his behavior. Blood swollen flesh bobs erect between well-toned thighs, needy and already leaking.

            The gentle hand still holding his softening cock lets go, and Hannibal is careful to not let the water running down Will’s body wash away the come from his hand. The doctor takes himself in hand with a low groan, pumping lazily to spread the younger man’s spent over his own cock. Will tries to pull away then, to move his head and look away but Hannibal holds him there, makes him watch. Will doesn’t think he can close his eyes and look away.

            It doesn’t take long for the doctor to reach completion, and Will’s face and neck go red with the implications of how much Hannibal had enjoyed finger-fucking the empath to get so worked up. He comes with a grunt into his own hand and across Will’s genitals and belly. For a moment he’s still save for the hand slowly milking himself, but as Hannibal regains his breath he reaches forward, smears their combined mess into Will’s skin and pubic hair.

            Will’s stomach muscles jump at the contact, his mind uncertain of Hannibal’s unspoken, physical claim. _You are mine_ , a vow made through shared pleasure.

            After several moments the doctor removes his hand from Will’s head, lets him straighten out. Water rushes over his shoulders and down his abdomen, erasing the evidence of what they’d done, but not the memory.

            After rinsing his hands again, Hannibal cups Will’s jaw and brings their lips together for a kiss. It’s chaste, a warm meeting of sealed lips, and yet so damned intimate. Will flushes again, grey-blue eyes shut against the maroon most definitely staring back at him. When Hannibal leans away, he pulls Will with him, keeping the young man close enough that their hips touch: possessive, _obsessive_ even.

            Hannibal washes himself then, shampoo and conditioner and body soap. Through it all he keeps Will as close as possible, with their chests brushing, or a hand at Will’s hip when the older man leans away to wash the soap off of himself. At first Will’s uncomfortable, but he realizes that his mind doesn’t wander _(not too far)_ when he’s touching the doctor. He pictures himself pulling away and being dragged into another fear fueled hallucination—something mixed between a gory end and rape. He decides that touching Hannibal intimately after what they’d just done, no matter how much Will would rather curl up in a ball and feel _nothing_ again, is the lesser of two evils.

**Author's Note:**

> Someone other than Hannibal should really help Will Graham.
> 
> (Original Prompt: http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/2246.html?thread=3398598#cmt3398598)


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